


104 Oppenheimer St.

by thesinfulangel_and_thepieprincess



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean-Centric, Demonic Possession, England (Country), Fallen Angels, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mute Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester, Smart Sam Winchester, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-27 18:04:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10814037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesinfulangel_and_thepieprincess/pseuds/thesinfulangel_and_thepieprincess
Summary: Dean Winchester comes from a long line of surgeons and doctors. Since birth, he was instructed to keep to the constant of science and to never stray from that path. But, halfway through medical school, he disappears. When he returns, he seems to be     the same, though refuses to finish his schooling. He travels around late 18th century London, preforming amputations and giving help to the needy for nothing. His father, the famous John Winchester, though unable to convince him to return to school, saddles him with a fiance as punishment. Dean is unhappy, yet doesn't speak against it, for he enjoys helping others. When he is called to 104 Oppenheimer Street, his entire world is changed. The patient that lies there is nothing like he has ever seen, a mute man with blue eyes and horrendous scars on his back. He is launched into the world of the supernatural, where he cannot finding his footing for a single moment. *Loosely based off Penny Dreadful*





	1. Chapter 1

"Oh, this is dreadful. So bloody dreadful." Dean dabs at the wound with a piece of soiled linen. He motions to the women hovering over the bed. "God-damnit, go find me some more rags." This woman jumps away like a scared mouse, feet tapping away across the floor boards. Dean shakes his head and looks down again. The blood from the laceration keeps welling up, no matter how much pressure he applies to it. They should have called for him right away, instead of waiting the night. Now, the boy is so weak that he can barely lift his head and puts up no protest to the panic surrounding him. In fact, he is quietly singing to himself, speaking words Dean can barely make out. 

"And grab you by the flank," he hums. The woman, the boy's mother, comes scurrying back into the room and thrusts the thin cloth at Dean. He gathers it in a bunch and grabs the woman's hand. She is completely startled, her eyes large and glassy. He presses her hand against the long gash.

"Keep your hand there and don't move," he insists. Tears stream down her face but Dean doesn't have time to consider that. He rushes to the fire that crackles loudly in the corner of the small house. He grabs a poker from the embers and holds it up. Cauterizing the wound may kill the boy, but he is already murdered already by his parent's neglect. He goes to the bedside again, holding the burning rod away from them. 

"Sleep, Sleep, Sleep," the boy continues. Dean shakes her, forcing her deer-like eyes to focus on his face. He tries to be as gentle as possible, so that she can understand. 

"You must hold down his arms and legs. If he bucks while I'm doing this, I could risk burning parts of him that don't need it." The woman is almost hysterical, her large breasts heaving. He shakes her again, and she nods shockingly. "Swell." She lays on him, covering the boy's small body with her huge one. Luckily, the thing Dean needs to get to is on the boy's thigh. A loud crash comes from down the hall of the tenant building, some thumping down the stairs, a women's scream and a man's curse. 

"Don't lie too close to the edge of the bed," the boy hums. Dean takes in a couple deep breaths, steeling his shaky hand and his thumping heart. There's is not way to make this perfect, the boy will live with scars if he manages to survive at all. He sighs one more time and then presses the end of the poker to the top of the long wound. 

The boy screams. His body bucks against his mothers', but Dean keeps the pressure on.

"Stop it, stop it," she cries. "You're killing him." Dean shakes his head and moves a little down, making another shriek tear from the boy. The woman reaches down to Dean, one arm restricting the boy's movement. She scratches at his shabby wool coat, attempting to make him withdraw. He jerks away and continues. 

"Stop it," she insists. He grits his teeth at her and growls. smiling when she gasps. 

"Oh no, I'm saving your boy. Let go or else he'll die." Her breath is flighty and lilting. She removes her hand. There's only a little still needing to be burned, about one-third left. He re-grips the poker and once again, presses it against the boy's skin. He thrashes and screams, his voice flying to the heavens and begging for relief and then when denied, falling down to Hell to beg for some short of end. But there's not any reprieve, not yet at least. Not until eight unending minutes later, when the boy falls silent and Dean drops the poker with a clatter.

He sits back on his heels, and shuts his eyes. His heart pounds in his chest and black gathers around his field of vision. This has been the most stressful thing he's endured in a very long time. One day, the thick muscle in his ribs is going to give out from shock and he will die a young man. 

The mother climbs off the boy and sits next to Dean, her chin resting against her chest. She is exhausted as well. They rest there, in silence, for a short time until she turns her head to look at him. 

"I must say I'm sorry, doctor. I'm his mum you know, I can't help feeling protective over 'em." Dean chuckles breathlessly. The irony in it is outstanding and Dean says so. 

"Remember that feeling next time he gets torn up by a thresher. And send for me sooner." The boy shifts slightly, the fire crackles, laughs resonant from the floor. 

"Drag you into the woods, little wolf will come, underneath the willow root."

Dean departs with a loaf of stale bread, some sheets of mediocre fabric and a lightness in his soul.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The bustle of London has always been attractive to Dean, though when he went away and then returned again, it didn't seem so glamorous. There's sickness everywhere, neighbors ravaged by Consumption, babies taken from their mother's breast by cholera and fever. London must be the dirtiest city in the entire world.

He weaves through the crowd, trying not to touch anyone who looks to ill. There's not much that can be done about that, he'll have to wash his coat again. His father's apartments are on the other side of London, far from the slums that Dean visits daily. He's almost ashamed of the way he lives, in such opulent surroundings while others are fighting for some wheat and a few slices of meat. He keeps his head down, his hat not allowing people to get a good look at his face. He doesn't care that some might think he's rude when he pushes past them, he won't ever see them again.

Vendors call out to him, selling a variety of things. Chestnuts! Spices from the Orient! Sex! Love! Silks! Gems! Anything that you could ever want. Dean doesn't have the money to but]y these things, he makes next to nothing working as a doctor for the poor. Sure, his father has wealth but he refuses to give any more then he has to. He resents Dean, you see, for not continuing the family legacy and leaving it for his brother, Sam, to pick up. If only his father knew, the great lightness he gets from aiding someone who needs it the most. Some days, it feels like he could float along with the birds. 

A large barreled chested man bumps into him without saying sorry, causing Dean to drop the loaf of bread he holds under his arm. Before he can bend down to retrieve it, a street boy snatches it up and retreats. Dean eyes him, sees the stick thin collar bones and knobby spine and shrugs. He doesn't need the bread. 

He manages to get back to his street before sun-down, which is a feat all in itself. He walks the cobble stone road, readying himself for his family's barrage of put-downs and questions. Hester will probably be there, what a wretched hag she is. Dean approaches the house he's lived in for his entire life and stares into it's numerous windows, daring it to say anything back.

The large house is a combination of smaller apartments. His brother has one, as does he, as does his step-brother, as does his father. This is where he grew up and also where his mother died. When a fire broke out in the library due to an over-turned oil lamp, she was the only one who didn't make it out. His father eventually remarried, to a woman Dean had no feelings for. She perished as well, though this time in child birth, when his step-brother, Adam, was emerging from her womb. Now, it's just four men in the house, four very strong-willed men who dislike each other in certain degrees and fight on the regular. What a wonderful home full of snarling alphas. 

Dean takes the stairs slowly, waiting to see if the house would suddenly smite him into dust but nothing happens. He sighs to himself, squeezes the blue fabric and opens the door. Luckily, there's no one in the hall and he thinks he can make it to his room before anyone notices his return. However, Sam turns the corner from the dining room right as Dean makes his first move. His brother is holding a book and wearing tan trousers and a coat with long tails and embroidery along the collar. He is surprised but then grins and claps the book shut. 

He moves to hug Dean, throwing his long arms around Dean's back. He tries to return it, though he is hindered back what he holds in his hands, Sam steps back, looking Dean up and down, long hair getting in front of his eyes. 

"I see you haven't been bludgeoned by some picket pocket yet, eh?" Dean snorts and shakes his head. There's some clatter from the next room and Dean is protesting before Sam can yell out to whoever it is, but alas, it's to late. 

"Hester," he yells. "Dean is home." He grumbles under his breath and shoots Sam a glare, who throws him back an innocent face. Sam knows that he can't stand to be in the presence of his fiance. 

Hester sweeps into the hallway, long dress trailing behind her. She's a creature of pride, always wearing fine things but never undoing the top button. She does what she can with her flat thin hair, which isn't much. She has one crooked tooth and a mole just under her nose. She's always complaining about something, making her seem even more like a snake or weasel. 

She smiles slightly at him, knowing that Dean despises her with every particle of his being. She loves to torment him this way, forcing him to deal with her in risk of being kicked out. She kisses him lightly on the cheek and takes his hand. Her skin smells sickly sweet and her skin is powdered. 

"Oh Dean, how delightful it is to see you." He smirks at her and shoves the fabric from his latest appointment into her arms. She unfolds it to examine it. "Where did you get this," she asks. 

"From a lady whose son was injured," he replies. She instantly recoils, dropping the cloth and wiping her hands on her tiny waist. 

"Why would you bring that into the house. You have no idea what _things _are living on it. Do you want everyone to get sick!" He sneers at her and leans in.__

__"I'd gladly die to get away from you but I'm sure my hell would consist of you yelling at me," he hisses. She narrows her eyes._ _

__"That would be heaven, Dean Winchester. Getting to torment you forever." They stare each other down until Sam has the nerve to step between them._ _

__"I'll be receiving Jessica for dinner," he tells Dean._ _

Dean manages to smile at Sam, who seems to love this women more then his practice. He claps him on the back. 

"You should go change and wash up, Dean. The Moore family will be here soon. I don't think your father wants to remind them of the pauper he's supporting," Hester cuts. Dean rolls his eyes at her, running his tongue over his teeth. He nods, pushes past Hester and climbs up the stairs to his rooms at the top. 

Dean's always loves science, but he loves literature as well and his few spaces are cramped by books. He dresses in front his mirror, putting on formal dinner wear to sit through another head-crushing meal where all that is talked about is silly things. As he's pulling on his over coat, the one he got from a tailor that'd come down with the shits, there's a slight knock on the door. Dean steps over many piles of books to answer it. 

Miles is standing there, a young man who works as a footman for his father. His hair is cut short and he wears a red uniform. Dean thinks he would almost be handsome if he didn't look so shrewd all the time. 

"There's a message for you, Mr. Winchester." Dean rubs the stubble on his cheek.

"Go on with it," he says. Miles nods.

"A Miss Bradbury is requesting your skills at 104 Oppenheimer Street." He says this all in a clipped fashion, bows once, and then speeds away. Dean is left confused. The people who know of what he does are informed that they can't call on him after the sun goes down. Why would this women suddenly need something with such great urgency that she broke the rules? Dean steps out into the hallway but lingers at the landing. Something tugs at his gut, a feeling that he has to go. That this is a life or death situation. His father will be incredibly angry if he leaves dinner but Dean can't find the will power to care. 

He rushes back to his room and grabs the bag that holds all his instruments. He takes off down the stairs hoping to miss the crowd, he has no such luck. The Moores are just arriving and everyone is greeting them by the door. Dean tiptoes around them, staying at the edge, hoping to get away before anyone notices. He's almost out the door when his father's voice stops him.

"Dean, where are you going?" He turns back to them, Hester, Adam, Sam, John, Jessica and her cow-like mother are staring at him, waiting. 

"I have to go. Someone needs my help." There's a moment of awkward silence. Sam looks slightly smug, as if he knew the evening was going to take this disastrous turn. 

"No, you're going to eat dinner with us and show the Moores a good time." His father's eyes look dangerous and Dean knows he shouldn't cross him in front of such a high ranking family. Making this match with Sam and Jess would guarantee their place in the social world of London. He doesn't give one rat's ass whether he ruins the party. Dean shakes his head and puts on his top hat. 

"I'm sorry but I can't." He leaves before his father can say anything else, melting into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a slur.

Dean leaves the brightly lit house behind him. There are still a few people on the main street, two old men smoking pipes on a bench and a young couple seeking refuge under a covered doorway. They're close together, whispering in each other's ears all the sweets things that their life will hold. Dean doesn't know at this time that he will be treating the young girl in just a month and as she's lying in her bed without anything to do, her lover will be run over by a cart and left to die. Dean sees all of this and turns up is collar. He's never been one to show any part of himself to the outside world. He would rather remain cold and distant. It wouldn't be wise to be pulled into an unwanted conversation right now. 

He's not quite sure where Oppenheimer St. is, even though he's lived in this city for his entire life. It's most likely on the south side, since the most roads with human names are there. Oppenheimer seems like it could be a name. 

Most of London is illuminated by oil lamps that cling to the walls of various buildings. In some places, it is terribly dark and pick pockets linger in the corners. Dean holds his bag close to his body. There's a lot of expensive instruments in there, ones that he's had for almost eight years. They were his gift when he started medical school and he can't afford to buy a new set. As he nears the heart of London, the streets get busier. The wealthy sectors of the city retire early, to party and to drink wine and to have a merry time. The part that doesn't care what anyone else in the world thinks is awake at all times. Soon, whores are propositioning him from every brothel, promising him things with painted lips. There's lots of them, though they get broken up every once in a while. He shakes them off, not wanting to get caught up in the sins off the flesh. 

Drunk men stumble past him with deep sweat stains on their shirts. One grabs his shoulder and smiles at the beer in his hand. He turns to Dean, breathing rankness into his face.

"Isn't this the most beautiful thing you ever saw," he slurs. Dean quirks up one corner of his mouth, he's willing to entertain this man for a short while, he would hope someone would do the same for him if he was in this situation. "Prettier than any women, prettier than any painting, prettier than the god-damn angels in heaven, floating around with their arses on fluffy clouds." He hiccups and totters away. Dean is left with as many questions as he started with. 

He spots a coach with handsome black horses. He hurries to the stationary carriage. His journey here has already taken a lot of time, and he still doesn't know what awaits him in the house of 104 Oppenheimer St. The man who handles the horses is asleep on the bench, his hat tipped over his eyes. His feet are propped on the one of the animal's rears. Dean steps up and attempts to wake the man by prodding at his elbow. He jerks suddenly and almost slides off the bench, his hat falling to the street. 

Dean bends down to pick it up, wiping it off quickly and handing it to the man. The driver smiles and dangles the hat off his head at a funny angle. He holds out a meaty hand to to Dean. 

"Name's Benny," he says. Dean is surprised. This man has a beard with some gray hairs, though he doesn't look that old. 

"You are American," he guesses. "I'm Dean." Benny snaps his fingers and pretends like one is a gun. 

"Yessire. I'm from the south, creole country." Dean has meet a few Americans, mostly rich traders and dignitaries. They're nothing like Benny, who is strong and broad and looks slightly like he's got some mischief in him. 

"I must ask you some questions. America seems wonderful." Benny shakes his head and smirks. 

"Sure, but I can't gab without a little money. You did want a ride, didn't you?" Dean remembers himself. His cheeks grow slightly hot and he can feel his ears grow red. 

"Oh yes, I'm looking for 104 Oppenheimer Street." Benny nods, sits and takes the reins. He pats the small space beside him on the bench. Dean knits his eyebrows together.

"Well? I though you had some questions for me. I doubt you'll be able to yell them out to me from the cab." Dean once again looks like an idiot. He steps up and takes a seat, squeezing himself in so that there's no way he could fall off. He clutches his physicians bag on his lap, twisting the loose leather on the handles between his fingers. Benny snaps the whip and the horses start to trot. Dean turns slightly to Benny. 

"What's it like in America? Do gallant cowboys fight the Indians like they do in the stories," Dean asks. Benny snorts and wipes his mouth with his hand. 

"Of course there are fights with the red skins but they're not as glamorous as tall tales make them out to be. Lots of people die and it's bloodier than you think. It's not a fairy tale, Dean. I was in this long battle myself. They're people too. They have wives and children and customs and things they love. They're not animals." Dean nods thoughtfully and purses his lips. It's sad how he thought nothing of the souls of the people whom he hears about. Why did he only think of them figuratively instead of literally. The air around them is somber and he decides to change the subject. 

"Are the women there as loose footed and soaked with freedom as the men say?" This time, Benny throws back his head and laughs with his entire body. Dean can't help but grin along. 

"I would say so," Benny chuckles. "You won't find a better time than with American women. They have the spirit of the revolution in their veins." They sit in friendly silence as Dean thinks of the women who have no morals. He comes to the decision that he'd like America. 

"Now it's time for me to ask you a question. What's waiting for you at 104 Oppenheimer Street? A pretty lady?" Dean rolls his eyes. He has never had much luck with girls and he doesn't think he wants to deal with them outside the bedroom if he can. Hester has soured the idea for him. In his time at university, his friends always pressured him into things. They laughed when they found out he was a virgin. They'd rented a girl and that night was full of chaos. He'd never gone through it. The girl was perfectly happy not to get plowed but still get her money. She didn't mind lying to his friends either. He waited another year, till he was drunk off his knocker and couldn't tell left from right. It was a girl he had meet in the pub, a miller's daughter. It was nice. He never learned her name.

"I'm engaged," he finally says. Benny doesn't reply, but elbows him lightly in the side with his elbow. 

"That's alright, I was just joking with you. I'm married too. A fiery women, Andrea, keeps me in line. Married life isn't that bad. You'll be fine."

They turn onto a street that is completely dark and Dean manages to catch the name before everything is in shadows. 

_Oppenheimer ___

__Benny squints through the night, trying to read the numbers on the houses. Dean tries to as well, but it's hard and they have to slow down._ _

__"There," Dean points. Benny pulls tight on the reins and the horses buck a little. The house is small and quaint but the exterior is run-down and the paint is peeling. There's a single lamp in one of the upstairs window and Dean can see the silhouette of a woman. Benny grabs his shoulder before he can get off the bench, pulling him in close and whispering in his ear._ _

__"This looks sketchy. I'm going to stay awhile." Dean shakes his head._ _

__"No, you must leave. You need to make your money."_ _

"Brother, the night is over. The drunks can stumble home for all I care." Dean tries to smile but the tugging feeling has returned. He needs to get in that house soon. He feels as if he's going to vomit. He moves around the horses and starts up the short walkway. He turns back to look at Benny, lifts his hand to wave and then spins around. A object slams into him, pushing him to the ground. Dean is momentarily blindsided. Blood trickles into his eye. Benny cries out from the carriage. A man stands above him, a gloriously naked man. Dean cocks his head. He must be dreaming, but just as he goes under, a woman with red hair runs up behind the man and stares at him as well.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Dean dreams that he's back there in that place. That pace which he barely remembers. The dream goes as so: 

___There's some red and oranges and deep violets. There's some sound but not much. It's dull pain and nothing else. This is all that he knows. Occasionally, he opens his heavy eyelids and sees the cooling dark blue, he's at peace for a single moment. There's some yellow bursts in this tantalizing blue. He likes to count them, likes to watch as they blink in and out of existence. And then he grows tired again and he goes back to the reds, the oranges, the violets. Ten years pass as he sleeps. Then, he is awoken by the man. This man is also red, his flesh is red and shiny, like stretched leather. His eyes are deep and red, like two little marbles. He carves into the skin of the one who sometimes sees blue. Once again, pain but, this time it's so dull. The torturer is losing his skills or maybe the blue seeing man is just becoming impervious to everything. The red man goes away and the other can once again sleep. He turns in this slumber, feet tied as well as his hands. A century goes by in between sightings of the blue and the yellow. This suffering is becoming nothing but a pathetic annoyance. He hears the red man talking with other red men, talking, talking, talking about ways to make him scream out in startling blacks and thunderous whites. They cannot accomplish this and the blue seeing man sleeps for longer and longer periods of time. Soon, when's he has been almost swathed in the red, the orange, the violet, for an eternity, the blue cries out to him again, even more vibrant than ever. He cries at the sight of it, great heaving sobs that attract the red men who hate the noise. They once again pick up their knives and return to his side. It hurts worse than anything he's ever experienced. But, the blue is still there, pulsating with yellow, beckoning to him, comforting him. He eventually gives up his screams and the red men think they've won but that's not true. He has the blue and even as he closes his eyes, the blue is still there behind them. He sees it and goes to sleep now, forever, because it is time. The blue follows him to where the yellow shines eternally._ _ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't get used to the quick updates. They will be a bit longer, and put out once every few days. Also thanks to the people who commented and left kudos. i made up the south side thing just btw


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just imagine Dean with a British accent. Also, i hate how i made Charlie look in this chapter. She'll get better

Dean wakes up in a cold place,a dim red room. He thinks he's back there, in that wretched place, but no, he isn't because he hears words. It's quiet, a voice he doesn't recognize, a woman's voice. It says, it speaks, it whispers. It's loud in Dean's ear, wait, it's quiet again. Now, there's anothers'. Benny. Dean wants to reach out, but his fingers won't work. He begins to panic, the ache in his gut coming back in a staggering wave. He tries to make a sound, it doesn't work. Maybe, he'll try harder this time and yes, they'll come to him. A foul taste swells up his throat. Yum, is that blood? Oh, how splendid. Splendid, splendid, splendid. Dean likes the taste. No! He shouldn't, it's against the rules. What rules? Dean can't remember. There's a clock somewhere and it is ticking. Dean counts the ticks. One! Two! Three! Hold on, the voices are back. Dean stops counting to listen. He can't make out what they're saying, as he is underwater. Oh no, can he breath? He can't! The blood is drowning him! Someone help! He tries to claw at his throat but his hands won't respond. Oh God, he's going to die. He coughs and splutters but nothing comes out. The bloody frog in his throat ribbits. He can hear it, telling things to the red men who haunt his dreams. Get out, he screams but it won't. It's stuck. He's dead now. Dead as a door nail! Dead and gone!  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------  
He peels his eyes open again and this time the room is brighter. There's more than one oil lamp and Dean is thankful for it. He hasn't experienced anything like that nightmare and then, waking nightmare for some time. He realizes he can move his body and there is nothing stuck in his throat. He does a check of his muscles, shifting slightly to see if they ache. There's nothing much, a little twinge along his back where he must have taken the brunt of the fall. Dean attempts to sit up but instantly is brought back to the pillow with a low groan. His head feels like someone cracked it open and filled it with cotton. Nausea courses through him and he licks his parched lips.

He tries as best he can to look around the room without moving to much. It's simply decorated. It has a chair sitting near the door with a ladies' stocking thrown over the back and a small worn bookcase holding a massive amount of old volumes. Dean knows that there are more people in the house but he's not sure how to make it known that he's alive. Luckily, he doesn't have to, because the door opens. A small red-headed woman enters, sees Dean with his eyes open and scurries away as quick as she came. Dean is bewildered and slightly annoyed. This night is not turning out as he planned.

There's feet stomping up the stairs and then Benny returns to the room, the woman following close behind. He stands in the doorway for a moment, looking Dean up and down. He suddenly chuckles, eyes sparkling. 

"Strange situation we've gotten ourselves into? Isn't it, Dean?" Dean swallows thickly and runs his tongue around his parched mouth. 

"Winchester." His words come out raspy and thin, something just below a whisper. 

Benny steps closer and says, "Excuse me?" Dean sighs deeply and gathers up his words again. 

"Winchester," he croaks. "My last name is Winchester." Benny nods and smiles fondly. He takes the chair and pushes it up close to the bedside. 

"Mine is Lafitte." He turns and points at the small woman. "And that's Miss Charlie Bradbury. She says she is the one who called." Dean lifts his eyes to look at her, even though he's feeling as if a nap would do him some good. She has pale eyes and sharp features. She could be pretty if she changed her ragged dress and washed the dirt off her face. 

She steps forward, still very hesitant and blushes, looking away. 

"You'll have to excuse me, doctor." Her accent is very low-born, most likely from Ireland, but nice to listen to. "I wasn't watching him and he runs off sometimes like that." Oh yes. The mysterious patient that Dean is supposed to attend to. He forgot about that all together. From his foggy memory, the man seemed to be in good physical health, at least outwardly. There isn't much he could do if the man has internal injuries. He'd have to go to a proper hospital to get that sort of thing treated.

Dean sighs again and thinks of how terrible this will be. He knows he probably has a concussion, due to the sudden dizziness and strong nausea. He should be resting now, but even though he hadn't taken the Hippocratic Oath upon graduating medical school, he still holds in close to his heart. 

"I can still check up on him, if you help me from this bed." He attempts to rise but Benny pushes him back down again. 

"I know that we just met but I don't think it would be wise for you to be doing anything strenuous," he says. Dean glares at Benny. He's not in the mood to be detoured and he doesn't really care what this American thinks. He might have just given up his home for this patient and he's not going to leave without at least looking in on him. 

"Help me up," he reiterates. Benny doesn't like it but he takes Dean's arm and swings it over his shoulder. He counts to three and then lifts Dean off the bed. Instantly, he is bombarded with pain, like knitting needles are being stuck into his brain. His eyes feel as if they're going to pop out of their sockets. The wall of the room takes a dive. 

He can't help what happens next but he manages to say something. "I'm going to vomit." Miss Bradbury stands there for a moment, seemingly frozen until Benny yells at her. She grabs a waste basket that sits next to the book case and gets it under Dean's chin before he can soil his nice coat. He throws up everything in his stomach, continuing to heave even after there's nothing left. Charlie puts the basket away, a look of disgust on her face. 

Dean hiccups. "I feel much better now." Benny chuckles and the moving of his body causes another strike to go through Dean's head. He whimpers and Benny stops. He has to stand there for a long time, trying to get the pain managed. It doesn't want to go away though, every time he thinks it's gone, it comes back stronger then ever. 

"Miss Bradbury, I had a bag with me, if you recall. Please bring it to me." She scurries off again and Dean tries to focus himself by taking deep breathes, letting his eyelids fall shut. She returns and holds out the bag for him to look into. He laboriously opens his eyes. "There is a pouch. Pull it out." She fumbles through the bag while looking forward. Benny shifts on his feet. 

Charlie has it in her hand now and she sets aside his other utensils. 

"Open it" he says. "The third syringe is what we want. Pull up my sleeve and find a vein and then inject the substance." She holds back, searching his face. "Do it," he snarls. She yelps quietly and steps forward. She shoves his sleeve up and holds up his arm to the light. A minutes passes until she finds a vein. She hovers above it and then plunges in the needle. Dean feels the morphine rush into his blood stream and he sighs in relief. 

His head lolls to the side and Charlie steps back. He smiles at her. 

"Yes, that's good. Thank you." She smiles in return and puts the syringe back into the pouch. In just a little while, Dean's pain is gone and he feels like he's floating on a cloud. He can now stand without Benny, though still plenty weak. 

"Miss Bradbury, show us where he is now." She nods again and leaves the room. Dean follows with Benny behind him, who carries the medicine bag. They walk down a long dark hallway. The wallpaper is peeling off the walls and there's stains on the carpets. 

"You'll have to excuse the house. It's only me taking care of it," she calls out. Dean doesn't frankly care, he's seen worse. Charlie stops and takes a lamp from a hook by a door. "This is it," she says. "Only one of us should go in. He gets frightened around a lot of people." Dean feels like laughing but reminds himself that this is serious. He takes the bag from Benny, who looks somewhat frightened.

Miss Bradbury opens the door and goes in first, setting the oil lamp on a table. From what Dean can see through the cracked door, it is a large room, bigger than the one where he woke up. There's a funny sheet hanging from a chandelier and Dean once again feels like he should chuckle at it. Miss Bradbury emerges again, her face pale. She grasps Dean hand.

"Please sir, be careful with him. He's an innocent. Nothing more than a babe." Dean nods and smiles tightly. 

"I'll try," he supplies. She steps aside, allowing him to pass. He casts one final look at Benny and her and then steps inside. The door shuts silently behind him. 

He is right, the room is very spacious. There's a bed on the far wall, with a simple rusted iron frame. A large crucifix is the only thing that is hanging up. Moonlight streams in from the one window and Dean figures out where the curtains went. They're the thing hanging from the chandelier. Long strips of wallpaper are hanging in the air. Dean steps up to it, shines the light next to the long scratches. There is something embedded in the wall. He pries at it after setting his bag down. He pulls it out, holds it in the palm of his hand. It's a fingernail, a human fingernail. He cries out and drops it, turning around to face the room once again. Where just a moment ago, there'd been nothing, there now stands the man in front of the hanging curtains. 

He stands awkwardly and jitters in place. His hands never stop moving and he's still naked. Dean clears his throat and bends his knees to get his bag. His eyes leave the man for maybe a second but when he looks up, the man is even closer. So close, that Dean can feel his breath on his face. He chokes. 

The man doesn't move, just stares at him with deep blue eyes.

His hair is close cropped and there's slight stubble on his cheeks. If Dean guessed, he'd put him at about twenty- eight years old. His face is hard but his eyes, those eyes, look kind and gentle. 

The man lifts a hand and moves it slowly around the back of Dean's head. He fingers around Dean's scalp and then stops when he finds the sore and still bleeding wound just above Dean's left ear. He cocks his head, like a little puppy. He presses one finger down, hard and Dean swears. 

All of a sudden, the man steps back, retreating further and further away. His eyes grow large and he begins to breathe heavily. He opens his mouth and screams. Dean is shaken. His eardrums rattle as the man screams. He turns his back and flees from the room, shouts following him. 

He barrels through the door so quickly that the opposite wall stops him. He leans against it and turns to Miss Bradbury, unknowingly furious. 

"What is that," he demands. Benny is considerably unaware, probably cursing himself for picking up Dean. Charlie shakes her head. She walks down the hall and turns the corner, Benny and Dean have no choice but to follow. She goes into an open doorway. This room is the brightest and has a roaring fire in the center of it. Miss Bradbury gestures to a few chairs by the fireplace and takes one for herself. 

Dean is amazed by the things in this room. Dozens of animal heads are mounted on the walls and a large map stretches across one of them. Dean can't help his jaw dropping. There are some things he's never seen, only read about. He somehow makes it over to the chairs with an astonished Benny following closely behind. 

The chairs are nice but old. He can't lean his head back because of his wound. He notices his hands are shaking and he sticks them under his legs and waits for Miss Bradbury to speak. 

"I found him in an alleyway about a week ago. He was naked and dirty as coal. He wouldn't answer any of me questions. It was like he didn't understand English. I brought him here and bathed him, waited for someone to step up and say that their husband or brother was missing. For two days, there was nothing. He would eat some, but still said nothing. On the third night, I woke up to yelling and crashing. I entered his room and it's like he'd gone mad." She hesitates, her lip trembling. "He finally spoke then, but in a voice that was terrifying. I ran away and hid under my covers like a little girl. In the morning, I returned and he was ever so weak. He'd injured himself, you see. And torn at the wall paper." So that's whose fingernail Dean found.

"It's hasn't happened again but when confronted with things, he yells and screams. I found a dead bird under his bed. He'd wrung it's poor neck." Dean gulps. She wipes the tears off her cheeks and laughs humorlessly. "Other than that, he's been a perfect angel. Seems guilty for the things he's done. The attack hasn't happened again. Lord bless me."

There's silence only filled by the popping fire. Dean is truly afraid for the first time in a long time. He's never dealt with a case like this. In fact, what Miss Bradbury is describing seems to be a better job for a psychiatrist. He leans towards Miss Bradbury. 

"This isn't my field of expertise. I'm a doctor of the body not the mind. I can not fix a broken spirit." She licks the corners of her mouth. She looks worn out, much like the house she's probably been stuck in. 

"Yes, I know, Mr. Winchester. But, I don't know any others who will work for such a low price. Will you please just treat his small wounds?" Dean grumbles under his breath. This has the air of something that he could be pulled into. He doesn't need this. He can go on with his work, marry Hester, have a few puppies and then die. But, that sickening tugging returns and Dean knows he can't walk away. 

"You say another one of theses... seizures hasn't occurred since a few nights ago?" Her face is insanely hopeful. 

"Yes." He nods and sits back again, rubbing his thumb over his lips. 

"I doubt that there would be much to treat. You can call me when what you described happens again. I would like to see it first hand." A big grin breaks out on her face and she stands. She takes Dean's hand and pumps it rapidly. 

"Thank you," she gushes. Dean just really wants to leave this house. "I can pay you. I was left this house by me late employer. That's why there's animals everywhere. He made his money in Africa." Dean stands and Benny follows his movements. How out of place must this coach driver be?

"I must decline that." Miss Bradbury shakes her head.

"No, no. I _will _give you money. I know that this is crazy and I have enough to last me for three lifetimes. I insist." They make their way to the door by going down a set of grand stairs, Dean's hand still clasped in Miss Bradburys'.__

__"Fine," he agrees. The screaming from the room down the hall has stopped but the floor boards still creak as the man paces along. Miss Bradbury escorts them to the front hall. She promises over and over again to call him. She goes to a stand with a pot of dead flowers and retrieves a large stack of money. She shoves into Dean's hands without counting it. Dean says goodbye and then he and Benny are off._ _

__As Benny drives the horses to Dean's house, they sit it stupefaction. Dean's headache is beginning to return and he yearns for his warm bed and the darkness that comes from his black out curtains. Dean turns to Benny._ _

__"I want to hire you as my personal driver. I will pay you to always wait outside my house from dawn until past sundown. And I don't want to speak anymore about what we saw in the house. I feel sick of it already. Will you accept the job?" Benny nods dully and says nothing else._ _

__All the lights in his house are snuffed out. Benny pulls up and they don't say goodbye, for Benny will be back there in a few short hours. He trudges up the steps, listening to the hooves of Benny's horses clop on the cobblestone. He leans against the door, almost falling asleep where he stands. He fiddles with the doorknob, his pain riddled mind not focusing on which way to turn it._ _

__He stumbles into the entryway, shutting the door behind him. He drops his bag on the floor and takes the first step. His head feels like it's full of lead. Every lift of his is like pulling the entire world on his heels. He makes to his rooms just as his heart slows to a nearly unbearable level. He falls onto his bed. Dean knows he should get up and clean his head wound before it gets infected but his bones are putty and he can't move. He decides to go to sleep instead._ _

\--------------------------------------  
In the next few days, his doesn't hear a word from Miss Bradbury. He goes about his daily life with even more of cold front from his father. He wasn't yelled out for skipping out on dinner. Only Sam and Adam speak to him, even the servants have taken ignoring him. Hester only pesters him. He knows that his father employed her to find out where all this new money had come from but revealed nothing. Benny is there for him, taking him around the city in proper style. He no longer has to worry about aching feet. 

At the moment, he's pulling an ingrown toenail from a middle-aged whore. Many of the ladies are crowded around him, watching in strange fascination. They giggle every time Dean swears, as if they haven't heard worse. The woman smokes a cigarette and occasionally squirms but doesn't cry out. Dean is impressed, a man would be on the floor by now. 

This little thing is being a stubborn bugger, no matter how much cuticle Dean cuts away.

The whore jerks a little and tips the ashes onto Dean's back. 

"Hurry up." He sits back and rests his elbow on his knee, wiping the sweat off his face. 

"Do you want me to mangle your toe? Do you want to get an infect and then die because you're a prostitute living in a filthy brothel?" She smirks at him and takes another long drag of her cigarette. 

The toenail comes out with a final wet sound. Dean holds it up to the light coming from the window. It's definitely nasty. He grimaces and throws it aside. The whore grabs her leg and brings it to her face. She looks at the toe and rolls her eyes. She jumps off her bed and smashes the end of her cigarette on some lacy fabric. It sizzles. Dean stands up and the women in the room cluster around him. They fawn over him, the handsome doctor, rubbing his arms seductively. He smiles politely but doesn't return their attention. They smell to sweet. 

The older whore pushes through the younger ladies and pushes three jars into his hands. She gestures to them while lighting another cigarette. 

"Those are full of jelly. I make myself." She has a thick Russian accent. Dean snorts. What a strange payment he gets from a whore. Fruit paste of all things. He drops them into his bag and retrieves his coat from the bed. All the girls fan themselves, baring their chests to him and stretching their long necks. The older woman is having none of it, and she pushes them out of the room. 

They wave to Dean and pout but eventually leave. The older woman holds the door open for Dean, smoke floating around her. 

"I call you back if I get infection from filthy whore house. " He gives her a roll of sterile gauze and tells the woman what to do with it. 

Going down the stairs is an ordeal. This brothel is a large one and there's three floors of girls calling to him. They lean over railings, throw handkerchiefs, spray him with perfume. There's drunk men moving past him up and down the stairs, drawn upward by beautiful nymphs. Dean thinks he sees one of his father's friends being led into a room but he can't be certain. 

He leaves the warm building and steps out into the chilly May morning. He pulls his scarf around his mouth. Benny had parked down the block, not waiting to be seen in front of the known brothel. Dean has been on his feet for almost every hour of the past few days. Suddenly London has become afflicted with everything imaginable. 

He looks at his shoes as he walks, brushing past the men and women on the street. He nears the end of the street, waits at the corner for the carriages to pass. Someone grabs his shoulder. The hand is bare and has long delicate fingernails. It can only belong to a woman. 

Miss Bradbury looks haggard. There's large dark marks under her eyes from where she hasn't slept. Her hair is pulled up into a sloppy bun and her lip is broken. Dean draws her in closer, feeling the need to protect this woman. 

"Miss Bradbury, you're looking dreadfully ill," he says, concerned. She sighs and nods. 

"You said to call you when he went under, and he did, last night. That's why I have the swollen lip. He hit me." 

"We must go then, I have a coach waiting just ahead." They hurry towards Benny and the horses. Miss Bradbury clings to Dean's arm and he notices how thin her coat is. For someone who claims to have a lot of money, she doesn't allow herself many nice things.

Benny is leaning against the carriage, reading a news paper, his top hat resting on the ground by his feet. When he sees them approaching, he rolls up the paper and stuffs it into a large pocket on his coat. 

"Miss Bradbury." He bows deeply. She giggles slightly and taps him on the head playfully. 

"It's nice to see you again, Benny. And please, call me Charlie, you too, Dean" He smiles at her and picks up his hat, creating another silly grand gesture. 

"How can I be of service to you," he asks. Charlie becomes grim once again, her hand tightening on Dean's arm. 

"You're to come with me back to the house. He's in a frenzy and I can't get him under him." Benny blows out air and slumps. Dean doubts that he's very happy about going back to a house with a crazy, mute, naked man who runs and screams. 

"Hop in," he says. Dean helps Charlie step into the carriage and then gets in after her. Benny prods the horse and they begin to get ever closer to the house. 

The inside of the coach is all black with grey accents. Charlie's hair is a stark contrast to it, as well as her ripped purple dress and green coat. Dean doesn't have anything to say for a while. He hasn't known this woman for more than a few days and yet they're already on such an intimate level. 

"Why do you have so much wealth but the house is in such a ruin and so are your clothes? Also, why look for a cheap doctor if you were going to pay me anyway?" Charlie purses her lips, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. She's not wearing gloves and it's almost freezing outside.

"It's not my money. _Legally _it is, but I wasn't born to the life of luxury. Those things make me sick. The man who owned the house before was in love with me. I didn't return his affections but his wife had died about twenty years before I was hired, during child birth. He said I looked like her. His son died from measles when he was eight years old. He was just a lonely old man, I wasn't going to be cruel. He had problems with his lungs and passed away from it. He had no other living relatives so I got the house, the stocks and bonds, all the money. I've lived there ever since. I have no other place to go, you see, Dr. Winchester." Charlie's story makes Dean ache for her. That house must be truly dreadful, a place where her last friend died, where many died.__

__"And about paying me," he prompts. She huffs and blinks rapidly, trying to clear the tears in her eyes._ _

__"I just felt bad because you agreed to help us and it'll be a tough job, I can tell," she snorts. Dean smiles and chuckles. The carriage rocks. Benny swears loudly at somebody on the street, who in return, curses back. Charlie shakes her head._ _

__"You know Benny very well," she asks. Dean snickers. Charlies waits for his answer with bright eyes._ _

__"No. I met him the same day you did." Charlie cackles loudly and Dean is mildly concerned. When she sees his confused expression, Charlie bursts out laughing again._ _

__"I'm sorry," she says, covering her mouth. "It's just that we're prefect strangers and yet, dealing with a intense situation." Dean can see the humor in it. Benny voiced the same thing when they first met._ _

__"I suppose so," he says. "I suppose so." Dean looks out the little window for the rest of the ride, mentally preparing himself for what the future holds. Charlie describes it as something terrible, having a busted lip as proof. He doesn't know what could be wrong with the man. He is most likely insane and no amount of medicine can help a crazed mind._ _

__When Benny turns onto a street Dean vaguely recognizes, the tugging in his gut starts up again. The house is still as decrepit as ever, even more so now that Dean can see all the small details. He opens the small carriage door, steps out, puts his hands on his hips and stares at the house. Benny is stepping down from his bench as there's a loud sound of breaking glass and something flies through the air above them. Dean puts his arms above his head defensively but the thing lands just in front him. Benny gets there first and Dean looks over his shoulder to see what the projectile is._ _

__It's a crucifix. The one Dean had seen in the upstairs room. He raises his head slowly, as if taking his time would make it less true. But no, there it is, the upstairs window is shattered and the glass sparkles in the sun. Charlie, who hadn't yet gotten out of the coach, rushes to them. She sees what they're looking out and her eyes move to the second floor as well. They stand there, waiting for another sign of life. And they get one, a loud dreadful shriek that almost breaks Dean's eardrums. He cringes and covers them quickly. Benny and Charlie do the same._ _

__He risks the chance and grabs his bag, throwing his head towards the house. The scream is getting gradually quiet but Dean believes that it will start over, just as loud._ _

__"We have to go now, so I can sedate him." Charlie hurries in ahead of him but he holds Benny back._ _

__"Benny," he says. "I understand if you want to stay away but I'm going to have to see this entire thing through, I feel it." Benny shakes his head and grips Dean's shoulder tightly._ _

__"I'll help brother, only because I have nothing better to do." There isn't time for jokes though, and Dean runs up to the house and through the door. He's enveloped in darkness and the smell of musty books. Charlie is nowhere to be found._ _

__Dean takes his time going up the stairs, taking them steadily so not to be surprised by anything. Benny creeps behind him, one hand on his side and Dean infers that he has some sort of weapon._ _

He looks down the hall, twisting his head to the right and to the left. Charlie is standing in front of an open doorway, her shocked face bathed in light. 

"Charlie," he calls out. She only moves her eyes to him, the rest of her body remains still. She jerks her head to the side slightly, wanting them to come closer. 

Dean tiptoes along the long runner of carpet, keeping his head down and his posture defensive. Something large crashes to the floor and he jumps. Dean's nerves are already shot. 

He moves to Charlie's side, going slow. What he sees makes him stop mid step and Benny, not watching, slams into him. 

The room is in disarray. The bed has somehow been moved across the floor and is now laying upside down. The curtains that had hung from the chandelier are now ripped to shreds. An oil lamp in the corner of the room casts a harsh light on it all. The man stands, his back to them, his arms wrapped around his body. Dean sees the nasty scars on his back for the first time. 

"Why did you not tell me about those." he whispers harshly to Charlie. 

"I-i don't know." Dean pushes her back, but her footsteps are to loud. The man spins around. His face is pale, ghostly white. His blue eyes are replaced with a sickly yellow, like piss. 

Dean steps into the room, holding one hand out in front of himself.

Benny creeps in, grabbing Charlie's hand and pulling her along. 

The man watches them come, a slight smile on his face. Dean sets his bag down, eyes never leaving the man. He straightens up.

"Sir, you can hear me?" The man doesn't respond. 

"Sir," he says gruffly. The man growls and Dean stops.

The man's head lolls to the side lazily, seductively Dean would think if he knew any better. He whines, a sound like a kettle at boiling point. He drops his chin to his chest, stopping. Dean risks another step. The man's head snaps up and he drops to all fours, like an ape. Charlie and Benny fan out around him, forming a line to face the strange man. 

"Sir, you must listen to me." The man snarls and jumps forward, snorting when they all dart away. 

"No, you listen, bitch" he barks. Dean is awestruck. So, this man can speak. But it's an unearthly voice, like sand paper rubbing against rock personified. The man tilts his head, grinning, showing off sharp cat-like teeth. "Good." 

"Maybe we should go," Benny blubbers. The man...the thing's head turns to Benny, his neck popping as he twitches. He gnashes his teeth and crawls towards the larger man, looking like some messed up version of a spider. He looks feverish to Dean, the yellow eyes have a dull glaze to them and he is sweating bullets. Whatever is happening is putting a lot of stress on the man's body, if he isn't sedated soon, his heart could suffer irreparable damage. 

"You seem _intense _," he drawls. Benny is frozen, eyes full of fear. The man coughs loudly and spits a black blob on Benny's shoe. He gets closer, a smile like it is painted on makeup. Benny doesn't move, which is smart. "I see a pretty wife behind those eyes," the man continues. Benny's breathing hitches, his shoulders drawing up.__

__"Andrea," the man chuckles. How could the man know this? Dean doubts that he's ever met Benny before. A cool draft comes in through the broken window. "I sense a stirring of life in her." At this comment, Benny looks surprised. He didn't know his wife is pregnant. The man sways on the balls of his feet, spine moving like a snake._ _

__"Her soul would taste wonderful going down my throat," the man hisses. Dean sees Benny can't hold back any longer, he's being antagonized._ _

__"You keep away from my wife, monster," he yells. The man giggles wildly, gnashing his teeth faster._ _

__"Maybe I should come to your house, teach her a lesson, feel the life drain," he spits. Benny raises his fist to hit him. The man leans into it._ _

__"Stop," Dean yells. They look it him, the man licks his lips and turns away from Benny, which is what Dean was hoping for. He crawls towards Dean this time. Dean starts to walk in a small circle, trying to get the man's back towards Charlie and Benny. He succeeds, but now has put himself into danger._ _

__He meets Benny's eyes, flicks his own over to his discarded bag. Benny gets the drift._ _

__The man is now as close to Dean as he was to Benny just a few minutes ago. He smells like rotten fish and sores create a ring around his mouth. The man sniffs at Dean, like a dog and then suddenly sits down, long legs splayed out in front him, his posture relaxed._ _

__Benny is almost to the bag, but he's taking his damn time._ _

__"Why won't you play with me, mother?" The man's voice is thrown into a high pitch. He pouts like a small child. Dean knows this line, remembering when he said it himself. The man huffs and crosses his arms. "Is it because of Sam? That's not really fair! I want to go see the puppets. Mummy, please!" Dean's mouth is dry, his palms sweat. Benny's pulled out the pouch now. If he can remember the syringe Dean used a few nights ago, it might turn out okay._ _

__Suddenly the man grows angry, standing up to his full height, jabbing a finger at Dean's chest._ _

__"Does your mother know her son is failure," he screams. "A dead waste of space. A nothing!" Dean falls back but the man is relentless, following him, belittling him. And then Benny is finally there, thrusting the needle into the man's neck, pulling it out and then stepping back._ _

__The man falls against Dean's chest, grabbing the collar of his coat. There's not fight left in him, but he is still awake. Dean lowers them both to the floor._ _

___"I remember your soul. I loved the way it squirmed under my knife," he whispers. Dean scrambles backwards. He chuckles slightly and holds out his hand to Dean, finger pointing accusingly. The yellow bleeds of his eyes.  
\----------------------------------------  
Dean and Benny wait in the game room while Charlie puts the man to bed. Sunlight streams into the room. Been looks exhausted sitting his chair by the fire, his shirt undone at the collar. _

__Dean can't help going for the needle. The man said he knew his soul, knew the knife that Dean was tortured with. The drug goes into Dean's blood stream easily and he sighs, sitting back in his chair. Benny watches him emptily._ _

__"Morphine," he asks.*Dean rubs his eyes._ _

__"Yep."*_ _

__"Is it an addiction?"* He swallows thickly._ _

__"Yes."*_ _

__"Caused by what?"* Dean swings his eyes to Benny, all energy draining from him._ _

__"Pain,"* he states simply._ _

__Charlie throws open the door, striding into the room with ferocity. She goes to the fireplace, takes a cigarette from a box and lights it using the crackling flame._ _

__"Will you continue on, doctor," she asks. Dean rolls up his sleeves, it's feeling dreadfully hot in here._ _

__"I'm sorry, Miss Bradbury. I don't think I can treat him." She throws her cigarette at him. He jumps up, brushing the burning ash from his shirt._ _

__"What the hell," he seethes. Charlie sneers at him._ _

__"Tough luck with not being able to treat him. Cause you'll have to. You're to into it, I see it in your eyes." She winks at Benny, glares once more at Dean and leaves, calling back over her shoulder, "Be back tomorrow or else I'll drag you back."_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * These are actual lines from Penny Dreadful, said by Dr. Frankenstein, who Dean is partially based off of.

**Author's Note:**

> The Lullaby in this is Russian and it's called, Bayu Bayushki Bayu. I'm not sure when this was first written/used but it's a good one, even though it might not be from the time period this is based. Please don't get to caught up in it.


End file.
